Everything and Nothing
by JoJo4
Summary: As Dastan and his brothers prepare to leave Alamut and face the Warlord Kosh, Tamina wrestles with her feelings for Dastan, knowing her own duty calls for a sacrifice that could part them forever.
1. The Brothers

A/N: The quote is from _The Merchant of Venice_. Bassanio has just attained his heart's desire by marrying the beautiful Portia; but when his best friend's life is threatened, he swears he would give her up to save him.

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**Everything and Nothing**

Antonio, I am married to a wife

Which is as dear to me as life itself;

But life itself, my wife, and all the world

Are not with me esteemed above thy life,

I would lose all, ay sacrifice them all

Here to this devil, to deliver you.

—William Shakespeare's

_The Merchant of Venice_

Act IV, Scene 1

Chapter One: The Brothers

by Jen

The grief of King Sharaman over his brother's death was such that his cries shook the walls Alamut and his tears flowed like the Tigris in a storm. He tore his beard and his clothes, poured ash from the hearth upon his head and sat down upon the dais in the middle of the chamber to weep. Two days passed before he admitted anyone, while afraid and ashamed, his three sons listened to the piteous sounds of his heartbreak from outside the door.

But when morning on the third day had waxed and waned, at last Sharaman called for his sons. They came alone into the dark chamber, which the princess had set apart for the king and his household. They found him alone, for Sharaman had dismissed all the guards and courtiers. It was to be a quiet, family talk; but still he seemed separated from them by an unbreachable chasm of sorrow and confusion. For all their courage, neither Garsiv nor Dastan could not bring themselves to come forward and touch Sharaman. Only Tus, the eldest, whose sword had been the cause of his father's tears was compelled to speak. Gently, he dared to approach the king and address him.

Before he had emitted a sound, however, Sharaman spoke. "My sons, it is good to see you." He wiped at his tired eyes with one grizzled hand and looked up to reveal a face smeared with ash and grime. But there was strength behind his gaze, and when he rose to his feet he once again seemed a mighty king.

"You must forgive me for shutting myself away in this manner, but surely you must understand my confusion. When I left the Eastern Palace, I thought merely to come and celebrate my sons' great triumph." He punctuated the word 'celebrate' with irony, infusing it with a certain venom.

Tus looked down at his boots.

"But I have come to find even greater wonders. My brother is a traitor and lies dead at my son's hand. Even more cause to rejoice!"

At this, Tus could no longer keep silent. "It is a difficult matter, Father, and I too have grieved for my Uncle. I hope that you know that I only did what I thought best at the time."

"No arrest? No trial?"

"He would have killed Dastan. I acted on instinct."

"The spy confessed without torture or threat. Here is the record," said Sharaman, gruffly. Yet he appeared to have accepted Tus's remorseful explanation. He set a scroll in his eldest son's hand. "We found deadly poison in the traitor's tent. Hassansin in make. This confirms that Nizam had been plotting behind our backs." Sharaman stopped for a long while, placing his hand upon his face as if to stop fresh tears. But they did not come. "He was my brother, my father's son . . . Now his head is to be cut off and boiled in tar and speared on a pike above the great gate at Nasaf. The orders have already been issued. Nazim . . . Nazim . . . Who could have thought it would come to this?"

Again the king shook his head, but at last he descended from his lofty place above his sons to embrace Tus, then Garsiv, and last of all Dastan. They looked at him with eyes beseeching his forgiveness and approval. With a full heart he gave it.

"Dastan, how did you know?"

Dastan had prepared for this question since the incident. And as he faced his father's questioning, he wondered not for the first time whether he ought to have waited until Tus gave him the poisoned cloak. He was aware of the glaring inconsistency in his actions. He knew how flimsy his evidence appeared, and how his sudden knowledge of Nizam's betrayal might reflect poorly upon him. But it was too late to go back now. "I was first to enter the city, and I found no forges," he answered. "I did not even find the weapons used by the Alamutians to be similar to the ones Nizam said he intercepted. Had they been of the same quality, our blood would have run in gallons upon the city streets."

"Only because of this?" said Sharaman, knowingly. "No other word or act of his made you suspect?

"I thought to bring him to trial only," said Dastan, flustered. He tried not to look as if he was hiding anything. "But he attacked me."

"He would certainly have killed Dastan," Tus interjected. "Surely a guiltless man would have protested his innocence before he attacked his nephew."

"Surely a loving nephew would have assumed his uncle had made a mistake rather than betray his family."

"Father, there is no reason to single out my brother," said Tus. "I am the murderer. And as for suspecting Nizam, you know as well as I that Dastan has always seen into the hearts of men faster than any of us."

At this the king relented, and his sons saw he had not the heart to interrogate them any longer. "How oft have I spoken of the bond between brothers? At last, I see my prayers answered. O, my fine sons, the love between you is strong. But as for me and unfortunate Nizam . . . "

Here he could not go on. He stopped to find his voice again.

"We will speak of other matters now. Most pressing is the attack on Alamut. And yes, it was foolish, Tus, to commence without more definite proof of its treachery."

"Yes, Father."

"But I see your regret, and that is chastisement enough. Besides, your deft handling of the matter from the end of the battle to my arrival has been worthy of praise. You have apologized in a manner that does not make Persia seem foolish, while promising a modicum of reparations. And somehow you have managed to negotiate a political alliance! The union of Alamut to Persia pours wealth into our treasury that our enemies could not cross in a thousand years. Excellently done, my son."

"Thank you, Father," said Tus. And he savored his father's rare words of commendation for a long time afterwards.

"And you, Dastan, do you take pleasure in doing your duty?"

Dastan smiled at his father, with his blue eyes sparkling. "I must confess that for me it is more pleasure than duty."

"She is beautiful, then?" asked Sharaman.

Dastan imagined her long dark hair spread out upon his pillow; he thought of the taste of her lips and the graceful arch of her neck. He was almost shy of making his answer. "Beyond words, Father."

"It is no less than you deserve, Dastan," he said. "Yes, forgive my harsh words just now. They were spoken out of grief. Truly I am proud of you. I hear they call you the Lion of Persia, and that thanks to your ingenious sneak attack the battle was nearly bloodless on both sides. Some might have thought I was mad to take in a youth from the streets and raise him as my son; but you have proven this week that honor and nobility is not limited to royal blood."

"Thank you, Father," said Dastan, with a grin he did not try to suppress. His father touched him upon the shoulder and patted his cheek affectionately. He had always been kinder to Dastan than to his sons by blood, not because he loved him more, but because he wanted others to see that he loved him as much.

At last, Sharaman turned to Garsiv. "My beloved son," said Sharaman. "You have had your share of the spoils as well, for it was your well-trained men who caught the spy and unveiled the truth. You have always been hot-headed, but in the end you have never failed to do what is right."

"Thank you, Father," said Garsiv. "I hope I never shall fail in the end."

"Tell me, son, Dastan stole the honor of first blood from you. Do you begrudge him for it?"

Garsiv risked a quick glance at Dastan, who shook his head, indicating he did not know what their father was planning. But they knew him well and sensed a trap.

"Yes, Father," said Garsiv, honestly. "I wanted the honor of attack. But that does not mean I hold any lasting ill will towards Dastan. . . . Nor do I covet anything he has or wish him to be anything save my little brother."

Sharaman nodded. Then he turned away abruptly. "Tus, you have seen this woman of Dastan's. I wonder her legendary beauty had anything to do with your decision to attack."

"Do you take me for a Greek? I would never attack a walled city simply for the right to look at a woman's face," said Tus, with a laugh. But he watched his father carefully. He looked helplessly at Dastan, who had also sensed what was coming next. Sharaman had always been a harsh judge of wives. "When at last I saw her, I cannot deny her beauty. But I have four wives and countless concubines besides. It is no more than I have already waiting for me in Nasaf."

"You still want her for yourself, Tus. I know you, my son. You are unaccustomed to going without what you want."

"Father, I wanted a political alliance between Alamut and our empire, something our allies could see as a legitimate reason for our presence here."

"They'll see that we marched into Alamut and seized its princess from sheer lust. That's what they'll see. There is no other reason to match a Prince of Persia to the defeated ruler of a conquered city. Alamut can do nothing but bend to our will. It is entirely subdued. The Princess's dowry would be a boon, as I stated before. But what need do we have of more gold? We have enough to feed and arm ten armies."

Dastan chimed in, "Alamut is deemed holy by all our allies. If it lies within our protection, then we gain a moral foothold at the negotiation table and on the battlefield. Who would attack the protectors of the gods? Not even Koshkan would resume its aggression toward us."

Garsiv spoke again: "Its abundant waters would give our armies sustenance and a chance to resupply in the middle of a barren desert. It would increase the reach of our armies one hundred fold."

"Armies and friendships and alliances are nothing when a man wants a woman," said Sharaman, and he was quiet for a long moment. "When a man is ensnared by a woman's beauty, there is no stopping him. He will rise to any feat, or stoop to any treachery . . . "

"I feel you doubt the wisdom of this alliance," said Tus. "And if it is on my account and Garsiv's, then I feel your doubt is misplaced."

"It is because I am older and have a better knowledge of women and the traps they lay for us that I have my doubts," said Sharaman, casting sharp looks at each of his sons. "I know of poets and bards who sing of love and passion, and their stories are all very pretty. I would not wish to deny a man such a feeling. And yet, this woman is powerful. In all my past dealings with Alamut, I have seen that she is not to be trifled with. She wields great authority in her own right and will not relinquish it. And I can tell that Dastan is already besotted."

"Father, I would not do anything to hurt my brothers," pleaded Dastan. "Whenever Tus needed me, I would be at his disposal. I cannot be controlled by man or woman. I will only follow my heart and do what is right."

"And I would never take what belongs to Dastan," said Garsiv, stepping forward with his chest puffed out. "The Princess Tamina seemed rather shrewish to me anyhow."

"And had I wanted her so badly, I would simply have taken her for myself," said Tus.

Sharaman pondered this for a moment. "Do you swear on your lives that this woman will never come between you?"

"I swear," cried Dastan. Tus and Garsiv followed suit.

"On your honor, and on all you hold sacred? For as I have always said, the bond between brothers is the sword that defends this kingdom."

"We swear," said Garsiv, pulling his knife from its sheath and making a clean cut across the palm of his right hand. "_I_ swear."

"And I," said Dastan, who took the knife from him. Without wincing, he made the cut and pressed his palm against Garsiv's. His blue eyes bored into his father's, willing him to see the earnestness of his vow.

"And I too," said Tus, who repeated the gesture.

"The bond of marriage too is sacred," said Sharaman after a long pause during which he considered his sons. "What if your duty to Persia conflicts with the duty owed to your wife?"

"Just meet her, Father," said Dastan. "I beg you, to do that at the very least. You will see she is not scheming or cruel, but honest and virtuous."

"Then I will meet her," said Sharaman, at length. "But again I say, promises and vows mean nothing when a man is in love."


	2. Tamina

A/N: In my story, Sharaman's reticence over Dastan's marriage stems from Nizam's betrayal. He thinks it might be because he once took a woman whom Nizam wanted.

Also, please note that I have the annoying habit of starting a fic and dropping it when real life takes over. As such, I am just going to plow through this as quickly as possible. There will be typos. There will be thoughts that don't make sense. There might be accidental sentence fragments. But when it's finally done, I will come back and revise it and maybe even add a chapter or two.

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Chapter Two: Tamina

By Jen

Tamina knew from how her ladies-in-waiting giggled that a man's footsteps had been heard outside her chambers. Quickly, she motioned for one of them to bring her linen shawl. It was sure to be Prince Dastan, who had requested an audience with her at least once a day (usually several) since their first meeting. Their meetings were either in public or nearby, but in that time she had surmised he was the type of man with audacity enough to visit her in her own private apartments. He could not be admitted into this female sphere where purdah was strictly observed. Only in her throne room and by the altar could men freely address her. She was certain that Persians had the same customs, and perhaps she ought to be offended that he should take such liberties with her. Yet her situation was different, for she was a princess in her own right, answerable to no one. If he wanted to see her, he could come without compromising her. And it was apparent from his sudden visit that he understood this and was taking full advantage of it.

Tamina found Dastan's attentiveness unsettling, and the strange way in which he looked at her even more so. He had known her for such a short time, but he behaved like a man truly in love and not one merely besotted by her beauty or by some dream girl bearing her features, but with a mind that his imagination alone had conjured. Dastan was never cloying, however, nor weak or unsure of himself in her presence. Despite herself Tamina could not help liking him. And that he seemed to know she liked him, in spite of her coldness, was all part of the greater mystery surrounding him that she almost feared too much to try to solve.

Tamina covered her head and sat upon the ebony chair next to the veiled golden grate, through which men conversed with women. With a steady hand, she swept away the veil and peered through the holes into the well-lit hallway beyond. She heard the footsteps of two men before she saw their faint shadows on the wall, which in turn were replaced by their handsome forms. The first was her manservant. The second was indeed Prince Dastan, dressed in a fine linen tunic that opened below his collar bone and over his shoulders rested a dark coat of silk embroidered in silver thread. The tempting triangle of exposed flesh below his neck gleamed with one of the scented oils for which Alamut was famed. He walked with head held high and with confidence. She had trouble believing the stories his father had told around the banquet table the night before of how Dastan had been taken from the streets. He certainly behaved as if to the manor born. And yet . . . there was remarkable sensitivity in his beautiful blue eyes.

Dastan was within a few feet of her doors, which were behind the chair in which she sat. From her position she could no longer see him, but she could hear her manservant pointing to the grate. Dastan complied quickly, and quickly Tamina let the veil drop. She had forgotten her modesty, just as she had forgotten to breathe.

His shadow fell across the light gauze, through which she could observe the darkness of his hair and the tanned features of his face. He was smiling, and he bent close to the grate so that she could feel the heat of his breath through the veil.

"Been watching me, Princess?" He addressed her in his callous, overly-familiar way that made her angry.

"Indeed, you've groomed yourself today. Apparently you're hoping to win my heart by wearing my perfume."

"Certainly. And I rubbed it _all_ over my body," said Dastan, with a suggestive grin.

Tamina was offended by this overt remark on principle, but she was also flustered by the scandalous nature of his tone. Being inexperienced in such matters, she could not quite grasp the implications of his statement. Finding herself out of her element, she could not muster an appropriate retort. She backpedaled to politics.

"And has your father approved of our political arrangement?"

Dastan paused. "If you mean our marriage, then yes and no."

"Prince Dastan speaks in riddles today," said Tamina with a laugh. She turned back to her handmaids with a grin. As she did, Dastan reached up and touched her fingertips where they clasped the edge veil upon the bottom edge of the grate. Her traitorous heart leapt in her chest.

"Don't go. Let me see you," he said. And he sounded hungry and bereft, afraid that she might actually leave her place by the grate.

"This veil is here for my modesty," whispered Tamina. "Men have their place in this palace, and women theirs. We meet only in the public spaces in between. It is forbidden, as you well know."

"It is my last chance to see your face. I will not meet you again in council tomorrow or the day after. My brothers and I are ordered to march south against Kosh before the end of this week. After that I return to Nasaf. My father says I can't see you again for a year, and if I still wish to marry you then, he will give his consent."

"To test your obvious passion for me, no doubt," said Tamina, with even coolness. "But still no one has asked me of _my_ views on this marriage."

Dastan paused. Tamina guessed he was weighing his words. "You accepted my offer. No one forced you into it."

"It was either marry you or die," said Tamina. "Of course you forced me. You Persians may have apologized for your invasion; but your cursed troops are still here."

With a laugh, Dastan pushed himself away from the grate. "Princess, if you really didn't want to marry someone, I am certain you would choose death first."

Tamina grew pale, for it was true. She had accepted his proposal because she had sensed a connection with him, and her anger now was kindled because that connection was to be severed for a time. He was to leave, and she was to stay, but she had no say in either decision. And moreover, she had heard that same, puzzling certainty in his tone of voice. It was clear that he knew everything about her, while she knew so little of him. And that could mean he knew about the dagger. If that were true, she must know . . .

She tried a different tack.

"Prince Dastan, as _agonizing_ as it is for me to think of not marrying you, I must put aside my own feelings and venture to suggest that you not risk displeasing your father if he is so set against our union. If it's my kingdom you're after, you've already got it."

"We don't want Alamut. Our troops depart in three days, and the only men we leave are three engineers and one hundred workers to help you with the repairs. If, that is, this plan meets with your consent. It was not to be mentioned to you until tomorrow."

"I accept," said Tamina, surprised. A brief and awkward silence passed as she struggled for something to say and Dastan waited to hear it. At last she said, "Prince, this strange reversal of your brother's attitude towards my city has been puzzling me since we met. And I feel that all his generosity and his efforts at reconciliation are somehow due to you. If that is so, let me thank you. But please, tell me what caused this change of heart?"

"You underestimate Tus," said Dastan, refusing to reveal anything else. "And you underestimate how much we value Alamut and its fragrant waters. They soften up a soldier, when he ought to be hard."

"But you do desire an Alamutian wife with soft hands and sweet lips," said Tamina.

"I would hardly call your lips sweet, my sharp-tongued princess."

"That is because you have never tasted them," and daringly she parted the veil and looked out to see his surprised blue eyes behind the grate. For a moment, he stammered. He looked down to her full lips and back again into her eyes. The grate between them seemed like a cage, and Tamina wished it were gone. What would his mouth taste like? Would he be forceful or gentle? Would his beard scratch her face, or would the hair be soft? What would it be like for him to run his hands through her hair and kiss the nape of her neck?

"Have you, Dastan?" said Tamina, gazing at him from hooded eyes. And then, suddenly, the haze she had thrown over him dissipated. She saw the wheels in his head begin to turn, and he had recovered himself.

"Thank you for letting me see you before I go," he said. "I will return for you in a year's time."

And then his back was to her, and he was walking away.

"Dastan!" Tamina called after him desperately. She wanted him to tell her what he knew, or perhaps she wanted him to tell her he knew nothing. But most of all, she wanted him to stay. "Tell me how you knew about your Uncle!"

Slowly, he turned around. He studied her, memorizing her face. Without knowing why, she cast aside the shawl and let him stare. Then he backed away, into the hall, around the corner and out of her life.

When he was gone, her chief handmaid Rima came up to her, replaced the veil and disapprovingly plucked the shawl from her hand.

"You like him," Rima stated. "I cannot entirely blame you. He is very likeable."

Beside her, the younger handmaiden giggled. "Then, _he's _the one. How exciting!"

"Oh tush tush," said Tamina, raising her hand to silence them. "If he knows about the dagger then the secret has been compromised. And none of this will matter."

Rima stopped her work for a moment. "And Alamut?"

"In the grand scheme of things, Alamut is nothing," said Tamina.

"And yourself?"

"I am nothing too. Besides, I have always known this day might come."


	3. Father and Son

A/N: I like Sharaman, but I don't see him as a softie who runs around singing, "Lalala. Daisies!" He's a good king, which means he's a ruthless politician and a man who easily imposes his own views upon others once his mind is made up.

A/N (6-16-2010): Well, my personal computer crashed. I've been writing out chapters by hand, and I have one and a half finished thus far. I may come into work early and type them up, or maybe I'll let it sit until the weekend. So yes, you'll have to wait longer to read more. _But_, when you do, the chapters will be more polished.

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Chapter Three: Father and Son

By Jen

It was nearly dusk when Dastan walked back to the great chamber where his father awaited him, and the long array of white horseshoe arches that supported the corridor glowed red against the setting sun. He felt dwarfed by the immense maze of Alamut's citadel, whose architect must have intended its inhabitants to become confused and lost. Yet the graceful lines of its elegant pillars, the cleanly fitted stone work, and the intricate manipulation of the sunlight bespoke wisdom and balance. He noted the contradiction, thinking of its appropriateness with respect to Tamina and her untamed courage masked behind her soft beauty. As Dastan thought of her lovely face, exposed to him from behind that damnable grate, he knew it would be impossible for him not to find an excuse to return to Alamut sooner than he had planned. To be deprived of her graces was to be deprived of air.

When Dastan had returned the dagger to her in her throne room, he had harbored the secret fear that without the shared knowledge of their sufferings together in the desert she would be less dear to him and he to her. But it had not been so. She was the same, inside and out, and Dastan saw that the reasons he had fallen in love with her had nothing to do with the way she wielded a sword or turned an insult, nor even with the depth of feeling she displayed for him. He loved her for her resilience and her pride. He loved her loyalty and sense of duty. He loved her beautiful hair and her smooth cheek. A year might pass and it would be no check on his heart. Let it be ten years! Dastan would always love Tamina.

It was with this thought in mind that he at last crossed the threshold between the antechamber and the private room where he knew his father sat beside a gilded table. The guard pushed the door open, and the chamberlain announced him.

"You have said your good-byes, then?" asked Sharaman, without looking up. He was reclined on a set of large, silken pillows set behind a large table on which sat a map of Persia. He held a half-eaten apple in his left hand, which he held up to his mouth. Clean and combed, it was as if he had never mourned Nazim at all.

"I have, Father," said Dastan, with a short bow.

"Then we shall begin."

"Shouldn't we wait for Tus and Garsiv?"

"I didn't call them," he said. And seeing Dastan's confusion, he added, "Can't I request the privilege of speaking alone with the 'Lion of Persia?'"

"I thought this was to be a war council."

"And so it is, but Tus and Garsiv have been briefed already."

Dastan considered this with displeasure. "I wasn't consulted."

Sharaman stood up and walked over to his son. Lightly he patted him twice on the cheek, a gentle sort of reprimand. "This princess has filled your head with honey and poetry. _You didn't answer the summons, Dastan._ I did not wish to embarrass you, who have so recently won your spurs. I told the others I had given you the night to rest."

"Thank you, Father," said Dastan, who had turned red with embarrassment. He knew it was useless to apologize. His father considered them signs of weakness.

"In the future, remember that daydreaming is done on your own time. I have raised you to be a Prince of Persia. In council, you listen. Understood?"

"Yes, Father,"

"And I have allowed you to marry this woman, though it is against my better judgment. From now on, you owe me everything I ask, and I ask for you to man up. If you want to be a general and a husband, you must be focused on the task before you. And right now that task is Kosh. You've already won the lady."

"I thought you were more impressed with her," protested Dastan. "You spoke extensively with her at the banquet."

"And?" exclaimed Sharaman, gruffly.

"I . . . I had hoped you would think of her with kindness."

"She is a virtuous woman, I know," said Sharaman. "You are a fine match for her, and I doubt either Tus or Garsiv could handle her as well. Were she merely someone's daughter or someone's sister or even our conquered foe, I would have no objection. But she is a sovereign ruler in Alamut. Her agenda and yours are not the same."

"She has honor . . . " began Dastan.

"Don't interrupt me," warned the King. "What I am saying is that girl will _never_ come to Nasaf. Do you see her idling her days in the women's quarters, letting Tus's wives and concubines take precedence over her at bath time? She's no fool. She won't be happy waiting in your chambers day in and day out, smoothing her hands over with creams and brushing her hair."

Dastan nodded slowly, at last comprehending. He tried to imagine Tamina in the harem, decked in pearls and gold and pampered by the eunuchs, and saw instead the girl slashing at his neck with a scimitar. She could never wile away her days among the vapid, uneducated women his brothers had married. How unhappy she would become, and how she would hate him!

Perhaps his look of misery was evident, for Sharaman seemed to notice. "Of course you didn't think of that, did you? You're too young, and you've never been married. But trust me, boy. In a year when you marry her, make no mistake. You're for Alamut. And when you come here, I won't have any son of mine answering to woman. I have one year to mold you into a king. I'll have you rule in spirit, if not in name."

"And if Tamina should object? Or what if her people abandon her because they see a Persian at her side?"

"You'll find a way. Oh yes, my son. You're clever, and you will find a way to remain loyal to Persia. Don't forget the vow you and your brothers swore before me in blood."

"I do not forget, but I do see that it will be difficult for me to completely take Alamut in hand," said Dastan. "So many laws here are based on rituals and a religion from which I am completely excluded."

Sharaman was quiet for a moment. He lowered his head and seemed to contemplate his next few words carefully, uncharacteristically unsure of what to say. "I did not mean to speak on this subject ever again, but I will mention it one last time. I have thought long and hard over how it was possible for you to know of Nizam's treachery, and I have only two theories. The first is distasteful to me in the extreme, and it is contrary to all my knowledge of your character. But, yes I have considered that it was possible that you and Nizam had plotted against me together and that you betrayed him first."

"Father, believe me, I would never do such a thing!" cried Dastan, coming forward. "I can't explain how I knew, but I would stake my life on it. Throw me back into the streets. Hang me from the gallows. I swear . . . " Mercifully, Sharaman held up his hand to silence him, and his eyes held no malice or remnant of suspcion.

"As I said before, such action is contrary to all that I know of you. I have considered it impossible. And yet, I know there is something you're hiding from me, boy. And I can only surmise that it has to do with this mysterious city and the myriad of obscure legends that surround it."

Instinctively, Dastan looked around in order to gauge who might be within hearing range. His voice had flown up into his throat, and it took all his will power to prevent him from embracing his father and gushing out with the tragic story of what occurred before had turned back time. Images of burned hands and slit throats surged in his mind, but he remained silent.

"Don't think that I haven't been tempted to command you, as your king, to reveal your secrets," continued Sharaman, seeing his son's conflict. "But if the legends are true, then you must not. Not even for your father. And so I will let it go. But don't tell me you are ignorant of what goes on in Alamut. And don't tell me you'll waste your youth barking on Her Highness's leash."

"Have . . . Have you gone mad?" managed Dastan. "I don't understand what you're saying."

Sharaman frowned, but he nodded slowly. He had accepted it. "Perhaps," he said, simply. Then, pointing to the map, he showed Dastan the dark spot that indicated Alamut.

"In two days time, you ride south with your brothers through the desert. Kosh will try to take the oasis first, but that will be a mistake. It isn't defensible. But you will listen to Tus this time, and you will let Garsiv lead the cavalry attack. This will be a full battle, not a clandestine raid."

And in this manner they continued until the candles burned low and Dastan's eyes grew heavy. Yet he did not fail his father by being inattentive.


	4. The Handmaid's Tale

A/N: My computer is working again! Sorry for the long delay between chapters.

At any rate, Prince of Persia fans are really quick to review! Wow! Thanks for all your comments.

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The Handmaid's Tale

By Jen

"He can't know anything," Tamina thought aloud after her spy had come and gone, leaving her alone with Rima in the wide, empty room. "He wouldn't have dared to call Sharaman mad unless he believed it." It had been her long habit to pour out her troubles upon the old woman's back, even since before her own mother had died. She had not indulged of late, but Prince Dastan had created a flurry of strange thought and emotion that Tamina could not untangle on her own.

Rima sat below her, dutifully applying beads of red henna to her mistress's feet with short pricking motions. So diligent and deft she seemed that Tamina was reminded of a blackbird stooping for the smallest crumbs on a walkway. Rima had not looked up from her labor, but from the slight furrowing of her aged brow, Tamina knew she had considered her words and deemed it best to keep silent. But Tamina could not mirror her companion's composure. She was sitting still, but her mind was racing. She could not pace, but she could speak.

"I wonder whose feet you will adorn when I am gone," said Tamina, full of a sadness that had utterly replaced her certainty of a moment before. "Will you go to your sister in Akesh?"

"No, I will come with you to Nasaf," said Rima, smiling, ignoring the dangerous turn she knew Tamina's thoughts had taken. Her wrinkled hand gently dragged the brush over the top of Tamina's delicate foot, creating a graceful whirl. "No Persian sword could keep me from you."

"I'm not going to Nasaf."

At last the old woman stopped and put down her tools, leaving the stars upon her mistress's feet half-finished.

"You must stop this nonsense. You have given your word of honor to the Prince and made him and all of us believe you were looking forward to the future. What reason do you have to do otherwise? Just now, you said that you didn't believe he knows anything . . . "

"Oh I wish I believed it, Rima!" cried Tamina suddenly. Her eyes were wet with tears, dark with fear. "But the way he looks at me . . . _So knowing_ . . . the things he says . . . He has used the dagger, I'm sure of it. And even if he has not, his father knows."

"Sharaman knows nothing," Rima insisted. "Only legends and myths that have circulated for centuries."

"It is no matter," said the Princess. "I know my duty, and I must do what I always meant to do. I must go to the sacred temple."

Rima clutched her mistress's hands in her own, so that Tamina felt she was trying to anchor her in this world with the force of her grip. "You have not lived long enough to realize what it is you are prepared to surrender. Life is long! You might have children, happiness . . . "

"How well I know it! And believe me that I have not yet made up my mind. I will confess that when I speak or see Prince Dastan, it is not so easy for me to think only of duty. The idea of a life with him is so bewitching that . . . " But Tamina could go no further. She remembered how her heart had beat when she removed her veil and let him look upon her. When she had done it, it had only to been to lull him into revealing his secrets. But he had simply looked at her, as if she were the most beautiful creature he had ever seen. As if he life itself depended on her returning his loving gaze.

"He is handsome, yes," said Rima, urging her on, redirecting the conversation to a safer, greener path. "And brave, loyal, and kind. The servants were talking to his servants, and I am impressed."

Despite herself, Tamina found she could not resist. "Tell me more of what you know," said Tamina, leaning forward, and in doing so she almost dipped her foot in the bowl of henna, nearly mimicking the wedding ritual.

"Tush tush," Rima derided her. "You aren't a bride yet." She picked up the tool again, and set to work without appearing to hear Tamina's request. Knowing she had been trapped, Tamina nevertheless took the bait.

"Please?"

"All right," said Rima. And then she paused, cleared her throat, and waited until she was certain she had her audience's rapt attention. Then she began:

" Sharaman took Dastan from the streets before he had reached his tenth year, and had the boy declared a prince by law and consecrated before the altar of the Persian god."

"Such heresies," said Tamina, with a dismissive laugh.

"Do you want to hear the story or not?"

Tamina was silenced. "My lips are sealed."

"So Dastan became a prince, but he never forgot his old friends in all that time. He learned swordplay and languages, and wore all the trappings of a privileged youth. But when he was 15, he heard a rumor that his old friend had been sold into bondage to secure his father's debt."

"And the friend's name?"

"Bis," said Rima. "Now no more talking. And as I was saying . . . Prince Dastan searched for Bis's master and found a miserly old wine merchant living in the trade quarter of Nasaf. So he sent his servants to inquire, but instructed them not to reveal that their master was the king's youngest son.

"They went, therefore, in disguise, pretending to purchase wine, and while there they did indeed see Bis, a gangly, mistreated youth clothed in rags. And when they returned they told Dastan of the merchant's cruelty, for he beat his slaves and cheated his buyers. And of all the servants, Bis was treated worst.

"So Dastan sent for his manservant and dressed him in fine cloth of gold and silk and sent him to the merchant with a purse of gold, instructing him to buy a case of the most expensive wine."

At this Tamina started to protest. "But why did he not simply order his servant to collect Bis without handing payment over to such an undeserving man?"

"Keep quiet or I won't finish," said Rima, batting at the delicate silver bands around the princess's ankle.

"Yes, I'm sorry."

"So when the servant came dressed as a rich man, the merchant saw immediately how wealthy his buyer was and knew he had a chance to bargain, which at first the servant was happy to do. He called for more and more expensive wines, exciting the merchant into a frenzy. Eventually the large number of requests became too much for the merchant to carry. He called for Bis, his serving boy to help him.

"When Bis came into the room, the prince's manservant said, 'What a fine, sturdy youth. I could have a place for him in my own home.'

"But the merchant replied, 'No sir, this boy is like my own son.'

"And the manservant said, 'I would pay 500 gold pieces.'

"'No,' said the merchant. 'I could not sell him for 500. I could not even sell him for 1,000 gold pieces. He is like my own flesh and blood.'

"'For 1,500, then?'

"'No sir,' said the merchant. 'Not for 5,000.'"

"At this, the manservant replied, 'You drive a hard bargain, but would you sell the boy for 6,000 gold pieces? Surely he would receive good care in my household.'

"'No,' said the merchant. 'Not for 10,000 could I sell him. Not even for 15,000, for he is my very own.'

"At this, the manservant replied, 'Very well. Tomorrow I shall return with my master to collect the wine, and we shall talk more about the youth.'

"'Ah, but remember,' said the merchant. 'He is my very own, and I could not give him away, even if you paid me 17,000.'

"And with this report, the servant returned to Prince Dastan. The sun set and rose again, and in the morning the Prince and his servant came together to the merchant's house.

"'Ths is my master, His Royal Highness, Prince Dastan, and he commands you to surrender your care of Bis, son of Hamun, unto him, although he knows this will pain you as Bis is like one of your own sons.'

"And hearing this, the merchant said, 'I would gladly do so, sire, but this boy has been my bond slave for five years, and the debt he secures is 5,000 gold pieces. If you could repay me but this small amount, almost nothing for a Persian prince, then I could give him up.'

"At this the Prince became enraged and nearly struck the merchant. 'But yesterday,' he said, 'here in this room, you told my servant you would not sell Bis for even 17,000 gold pieces. Yet today you ask for 5,000! You are a liar.'

"And in Persia, as you know, a liar is worse than a jackal's ass. So the prince had the merchant hauled to the gallows, and Bis came to live in the palace."

Tamina had been leaning forward, with her elbows on her knees and her chin upon her folded hands. She found the ending to this clever tale unsettling. The prince seemed wise, generous, and dangerous all at the same time.

"What of the merchant's other servants?" she asked.

"Freed!"

"But is it true?" said Tamina, sitting up strait again. Rima had been dabbing her feet with henna all this while, but now they were finished. They had only to dry before she was free to move about once more.

"I heard it from Bis's own servant."

"A worthy man," said Tamina, who then stood up, ignoring Rima's chastisement for endangering her careful work. "How much I should like to know him better!"

"If you have cast aside all this foolish talk of self-sacrifice, I will tell you how the servants reach Dastan's chambers."

"For shame!" exclaimed Tamina, blushing red from the jab to her maidenly modesty.

"He goes into battle soon, milady! Would you deny such a man one taste of your 'sweet lips' before he goes?"

Tamina grew redder still as she recalled her earlier words to Dastan as they conversed across the grate.

"Suppose he finds one of Kosh's daughters in his bed and gives all your rights as first wife to her instead?"

Tamina shuddered at such a thought. "For 200 years the women of my family have pleased their husbands enough to be _only_ wives. Do you suggest I will be different?"

"Then you _shall_ marry him," said Rima, a look of triumph upon her face.

"If our secrets are safe, then I shall."

"Even if he knows them, I cannot believe he would tell," said Rima. "He has kept it a secret from you, even when you are most in the right to hear it."

Tamina shook her head, and found that her depression, her fear had returned. "You know even less of him than I do, and even I am uncertain."

Rima seized the train of Tamina's gown impulsively, kissing the golden hem that hovered about the intricate designs she had placed upon her feet. Tamina's movement had already smeared the pointed star, marring its symmetry.

"Mistress, I beg you to cease these horrible thoughts of death until you know Prince Dastan better. _Promise_ me you will not go to the mountain temple until you are certain the dagger is compromised by an unworthy, dishonest man. For though I care not at all if the wells of Alamut run dry and its gardens wither, but _you_, whom I have nurtured from infancy are dearer to me than life itself. And I beg . . . I beg you . . . "

"Who is priestess here?" snapped Tamina. "You make my burden heavier than it is already. My duty is clear, but I too love life. But out of love for you, I can promise that I will do nothing until I am certain." And having said this, she retired to bed with a heart rent by thorns. She had prepared all her life for the moment when she could prove her worthiness by denying whatever desires she might develop; yet now that she could feel with them without the golden barrier of ignorance, life had become infinitely dearer. She had something to live for, and her earlier resolve to give it up seemed not only terrifying, but foolish as well.


	5. The Duel

A/N: I'm pretty tired as I'm finishing this up. Please forgive any typos or strange mistakes. I'll fix them later! Mainly I'm trying to keep the momentum going. If I let the story sit for too long, I will lose interest in it. And by the way, thanks for all your reviews! It makes me excited to publish another chapter.

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The Duel

By Jen

Dastan awoke refreshed. For once he had neither doused himself with drink the night before nor tested his aching muscles with brawling. He rose and stretched and called for his robes before dawn had lost its first blush.

When this had been done, he noticed the feast spread out upon the large round table set low before the barricade of pillows beside his bed. Dates and bread with a salty cheese and olive oil sprinkled with sesame seeds greeted his grumbling stomach. There were pomegranates too and fresh water brought from the cool springs of Alamut. He had heard of Alamutian hospitality, but today was the first morning that he could truly say he had experienced it. And, whether or not it was true, he nursed the hope that it had been Tamina to whom he owed his breakfast. Digging his fingers into the bread, he pulled apart the warm crumb and eagerly dipped it piece by piece into the oil. He found it to be the most delicious bread he had ever tasted, better even than the first loaf he had enjoyed on his first day in his father's palace.

Soon after, when Dastan was fed and clothed, the servant came to him.

"Speak," said Dastan, adjusting the drape of his tunic.

"His Majesty has sent you a gift, Your Highness." And the servant motioned to an even larger table at the far end of the room, which was covered in a long black cloth. The manservant walked over to it and at Dastan's signal pulled it from the table. Underneath was revealed a shining coat of bronze scale armor.

Gasping with amazement for having received such a lavish gift, Dastan drew closer to inspect the gleaming coat. There he discovered that on each of the hundreds of scales was engraved a Persian Lion in a different pose. Some were ready to strike; others watched their flanks; others simply slept, but all were set in clean, delicate lines as if etched with a sewing needle, and their appearances seemed so lifelike that Dastan felt the artist must have somehow breathed life into them.

"Extraordinary," he said. "It is a greater thing than even my father's own armor."

"His Majesty asks that you wear it when you review your men, Your Highness."

"Yes, of course," said Dastan, who had not removed his eyes from the beautiful gift. He reached out to touch the polished metal with eager hands, but at the last drew back, almost afraid to sully the sheen. And as he looked on it still longer, a great wave of happiness overcame him. For 15 years he had longed for a chance to prove his worthiness to his family, yet for 15 years he had never felt entirely secure of their love until this moment. But this gift was the last, missing piece and the symbol of their acceptance. And had it not been for Tamina, whose face entered his thoughts just then, he might have remained in that perfect state of bliss for a while longer.

But he could not help feeling disappointed that he could never tell her what this gift meant to him or how exactly he knew that his brothers would die for his sake. For the girl who would have understood it all had slipped from his hand into the abyss and been swallowed by the darkness of non-existence. Like dreams and shadows, she had never been. And if he endeavored to tell this other Tamina, whose calculating mind he knew had already smelled lies and secrets upon his weary shoulders, then he was certain she would fall into the abyss again. Dastan recalled what Tamina, _his_ Tamina, had told him about what she must do when outsiders learned of the dagger. He didn't understand the logic of it, but he knew that if he revealed what he had learned about the dagger, she certainly would go to the temple to sacrifice herself. She would certainly disappear into the Hindu Kush while he and his brothers were away fighting. 'No,' he thought to himself. 'Until she trusts me, I must not say anything. I must even cease from hinting at what transgressed between us.'

He remembered how convincingly she had feigned a swoon in the Valley of the Slaves, and how easily he had fallen into her trap. He was certain she had been trying to lure him into the same sense of false security the evening before when she removed her veil. How beautiful she had been! How beguiling. Dastan longed for her kiss and her soft looks. Yet he was fairly certain he couldn't trust any affection she might show. It was all for the dagger.

Dastan's troubled countenance continued at variance with his delight in the armor, even as he lifted his strong arms outward for his servant to strap it on. Carefully, the servant fastened Dastan's tunic to cover his chest and neck, then pulled the heavy coat over the prince's head. He fastened the leather straps that held the arm pieces to the shoulders. Then he took a long band of scarlet wool and wrapped it round Dastan's waist before girding the prince's belt overtop. With this completed, Dastan hooked his sheathed sword to his belt and wrapped the sash around it. Then armed and dressed like one of the warrior-gods of legend, Dastan emerged from his chambers and made his way to the council hall where his brothers had gathered.

The walk was not long, for the Persian factions had been confined to the western wing of the citadel. It took him fewer than ten minutes before he found himself at the entrance to the great hall, which was already bustling with officers. Tus already was lecturing his generals on the importance of acquiring more skeins of water before the day had ended.

"I have spoken to Her Highness, and you should already have received twice what you've reported to me. What can possibly account for the discrepancy? Ah! Dastan!"

Garsiv was at Tus's right hand, glaring at the offending commander. But when he saw his little brother, his expression softened. A grin replaced his scowl.

"Well! Someone has found a fancy new tin suit!" he laughed, coming forward to clasp his hand. "I wouldn't wear that in battle, Dastan. You'll be too worried about getting smudges on it to fight properly."

"Don't worry. It's just to impress the ladies. If I don't fight, then you'll be overrun in seconds."

"You look like some kind of twinkling little star," Garsiv said. "Just looking at your polished ass makes my eyes bleed."

"Now now, brothers," said Tus, interrupting them. He motioned to the map upon the table. "This is not for your manly bonding. Let me remind you both that we have a war to plan."

Dastan looked suitably chastised, but not so much that he couldn't shoot Garsiv a look. 'My coat's better than yours, and you know it,' his smiled suggested. Garsiv pretended to reach for his sword.

"Are you listening?" said Tus, who did not try to keep the edge out of his voice this time.

"Of course, brother," said Dastan.

"Good. Father has briefed you on the movement of Kosh's armies, but the rest of the campaign is under my supervision. Garsiv has the heavy cavalry and the mounted camel archers. You shall command the swordsmen and the small contingent of Alamutian spearmen and light cavalry that Her Highness, Princess Tamina, has offered as a token of good will. Your men, as always, will march under your standard. They are unconventional fighters. I leave it to you to decide how best to deploy them. But don't forget that they are not your primary responsibility this time."

Dastan looked up, surprised and pleased that Tus had offered him his first real command. "I won't let you down," he said.

"I know you won't," said Tus, but he remained aware of the officials and soldiers watching. He did not display any emotion, but simply motioned to a man standing in the dark corner, apart from the others. Dastan recognized him immediately as the man from whom he had taken the dagger. "Asoka here is the Alamutian commander. He is the Princess's trusted general."

Asoka bore a dark bruise across his face, but he wore it well. His stoic figure straightened at the mention of his name. He looked at Prince Dastan and gave a curt, but elegant bow. "We have met before, Your Highness."

Dastan nodded good-naturedly. "The spear," he said. "The horseman with the spear."

"Yes, Your Highness. When we last saw each other, we were enemies. Now we are . . . allies."

"I'm glad," said Dastan, who had not failed to note the distaste Asoka seemed to have for the word 'allies.' "I'm not sure I could best you again." Although Dastan was certain that he could.

"If Your Highness would be so generous as to trifle with me, let me respectfully suggest that we have a rematch."

"Later," said Tus. "We have more important matters."

"As you wish, Your Highness." But he did not take his eyes off Dastan.

Several hours later, when the council was adjourned and the review of the troops completed, the three brothers dismounted from their horses and were tying them to the posts outside the palace gate.

"Be wary of that Alamutian general," said Garsiv. "He's been watching you all day like a lion stalking a gazelle."

"Am I a gazelle in this analogy?"

"Like a hawk watching a mouse."

"Garsiv . . . "

"Like a shark going after a guppy."

"Shut up," said Dastan. "As for him, I think I know why. We fought in the square during the attack. Perhaps he's the kind of man who can't accept defeat," said Dastan. "I should settle it."

"He's comes this way," said Garsiv, suddenly growing serious. Sensing a fight, his nostrils flared. "Settle it if you must. I've got your back."

Asoka came up to Dastan and bowed. "Your Highness. About that rematch . . . "

"It's too late in the day for brawling," said Dastan, peaceably. He turned around slowly, holding his hands up to show he had no intention of fighting.

"Perhaps then we should wait until dawn and I am unarmed," said Asoka. "That is, after all, when Persians attack."

"What's past is past," said Dastan. "Your Princess has formed an alliance with us, and we have done nothing to dishonor it or to impinge upon her hospitality."

"Which is why I only challenge you to a friendly duel. I am descended from the rulers of Alamut. I have trained with weapons since I was old enough to hold them. And never before have I met a fighter who could best me until you. It would give me great honor to cross blades with you."

Dastan was flattered. He couldn't help it. But he was still resolved not to fight, that is, until he looked up and saw Tamina and her ladies watching the proceedings from the parapet high above the square. She was unveiled, but she held the ends of her shawl together below her delicate chin. Her dark eyes seemed fixed upon him.

"All right. Here's as good a place as any," he said, looking again at Asoka. He set his hand upon the hilt of his sword and prepared to unsheathe it.

"Dastan, not now!" said Tus, trying to come between them.

"Only a little, friendly match, brother! Nothing to get out of hand."

"It had better not," warned Garsiv, speaking directly to Asoka.

But before he had even finished speaking, Asoka had pulled his sword from its scabbard and taken a swipe at Dastan. The prince hopped deftly out of the way, allowing the swing to scrape the stone post behind him. Sparks flew as the iron blade scraped across the sandstone.

Then he unsheathed his own weapon with a flourish. Asoka renewed his attack, and Dastan parried two blows in quick succession. They were coming hard and fast, and beads of sweat were already rising on his adversary's forehead. When the third came, Dastan barely leapt out of the way in time. He stumbled on a rock and struggled to regain his balance, but at the last moment he decided to drop to the ground, just in time to avoid Asoka's slice, which took a small section of his hair.

"What are you doing?" he cried. But Dastan had already realized that this was no friendly match. As Asoka swung again, Dastan just barely parried the blow, finding it harder now that he was on the ground to match Asoka's brute strength.

Beside him Garsiv had pulled out his own sword and was prepared to join.

"No!" said Dastan. "I can take him." And he leapt to his feet. With his curved blade in his right hand, he went on the offensive. He drove Asoka back with a quick slash that was parried. He ducked to avoid the oncoming blade and swiped at the general's ankles. When Asoka jumped, Dastan rolled out of the way to avoid his kick. On the ground again, he found Asoka bearing down on him, but he jumped up. Their blades crossed. Dastan turned, he sought out his opponent's weak spot. But Asoka was a seasoned fighter. He surprised Dastan and changed sword hands, delivering a clean slice across his chest.

When Dastan looked down, he saw his precious armor bore a foot-long gash. It had stopped the blade from penetrating his flesh, but its beautiful design was forever ruined. His father's gift . . .

Fury overtook him and he renewed the fight with double the force he'd used before. He leapt out of the way, dodging the blade and jumping onto the edge of the horse trough, using it as leverage to flip over Asoka and come up behind him, seizing Asoka in his arms and pressing his blade up against his throat.

"Do you yield?"

Asoka butted him in the face with the back of his head. As Dastan stumbled back, Asoka struck him on the ear, causing it to ring. Dastan screamed in pain, and Asoka used the opportunity to kick his sword from his hand.

He held his sword above Dastan's head, ready to bring it down.

"What are you doing?" cried the prince. But he didn't wait for the answer. He dove for his own sword, and clasping it, he turned to meet the next attack. But it never came.

Garsiv and his men had subdued Asoka. They had him at his knees, and Garsiv was enraged and screaming at the general.

"How _dare _you?" he cried. "What has my brother done to you but save your miserable city from servitude and disgrace?"

"We should kill you for this offense," said Tus. "It is the Princess, however, who will judge you."

"No, I will have his head here!" screamed Garsiv, whose face had turned red from fury. He was pacing up and down now, his sword swiping at the air. Dastan saw he had worked himself into a fever, and he came up to calm him.

"We should kill him," said Garsiv. "When you are king in Alamut, I will not always be here to watch your back. We should destroy your enemies _now_."

"Peace, brother," said Dastan. "I am not king in Alamut yet. And if we kill him today, I may find many more enemies here when I return."

"You will never be king of Alamut," groaned Asoka, who wretched in pain as Garsiv struck him in the stomach with his boot. But it was the strange way in which he said it that piqued Dastan's interest. He did not seem defiant or even hateful. His voice had a sad, tragic, and resigned quality. "Come here. I must tell you something. About your destiny."

_Destiny. _Tus held Dastan back, but could not stop him from coming closer and bending low so that Asoka might whisper in his ear.

"_If you truly loved her, you would have let me kill you."_

Stunned, Dastan stood upright. He looked up again at the parapet where Tamina had been and saw her still there. She had covered her face again with her shawl, but he could still see her eyes before she turned away and left with her ladies. He could not say what was in her mind at that moment, but he had a sneaking suspicion that she had been rooting for his death. She must have decided that he had compromised the secret of the dagger somehow. And Dastan knew he ought to feel disturbed, but instead he felt oddly comforted. The memory of another Tamina reaching for a sword flashed in his mind again. _Destiny._ Then he remembered how she had let go of his hand, putting his life before hers . . .

"The Princess has left you to your fate," mocked Garsiv.

"Stop it, Garsiv," Dastan insisted. "He just got carried away. Let him up. Let him go."

Garsiv regarded his younger brother for a long moment, but Dastan met his gaze with no sign that his resolve would weaken. "We'll let him live. He's a good fighter, and I know he'll be a good ally."

"Sometimes I don't understand you, brother," said Garsiv, at length.

Tus had been mostly silent throughout the entire ordeal, but now he reached out and offered Asoka his hand. "Persians are more than conquest," he said. "We know what justice is. No blood was spilled today in what was a fair fight between two incredibly foolish men."

"Tus . . . " Dastan began.

"I won't tell father about this. And I'll have my armorer look at your coat."

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A/N: Tamina and Dastan meet again in the next chapter. (Finally! Gee, I wish I'd thought of a plot where they actually spent time in the same room . . . )


	6. Dastan's Excuse

A/N: Well, they're in the same room, but they don't really interact. I'm sorry I haven't been able to update more often. I've been pulling extremely late hours at work. I have most of the next chapter written, though. But it's not really meant to be a next chapter. It's supposed to be part of this one. I will try to finish it tonight. If not, then definitely tomorrow!

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Chapter 6: Dastan's Excuse

By Jen

The loss of his new coat of armor preyed hard upon Dastan, and he was silent throughout much of the farewell banquet as he ruminated not merely over the material damage, but what that damage meant. He was not overly superstitious, but he believed in omens; and this seemed like a bad one. The symbol of his unquestioned status as a member of the royal house of Persia slashed to bits in a single day? He recalled a dark memory from his childhood, long buried, when he had not been a beggar in the streets, but the pampered son of a cloth merchant. And one day a shadow had fallen across his mother's face while she was napping . . . and he had known then that she would die. He shook away that thought, which had come to him unbidden. Reason said that his armor had been ruined not from any divine mandate, but from his own recklessness in accepting a duel at all. He supposed he had not wanted to lose face in front of Tamina, having forgotten for a moment that she had never been particularly impressed with his acrobatics. And lo and behold, his stunts from that afternoon had not won her over either. She was sitting clear at the end of the banquet hall, and from what he could tell she had not glanced up at him once.

Garsiv was stewing in his own gall to Dastan's right. Fiercely proud of his status and convinced that Alamut would cower and cave under any threat to its alliance with Persia, he had been mortified to learn that not only was Asoka to go unpunished, but he was to have the honor at sitting nearest to the princess's couch during the meal. "What colossal rudeness!" he had exclaimed, upon seeing them together. "His head ought to be sitting before you on a silver platter." He watched them carefully throughout the meal, scowling the entire time.

Dastan on the other hand had been unperturbed by the proximity of the two. Not for the first time did he wish that Garsiv were better able to let a slight pass. It was almost embarrassing to see him glowering at the Alamutian head table. Asoka had been the soul of politeness since their skirmish, and seemed colder to the Princess than to any of his affronted Persian allies.

Observing the Princess's friendliness to her general now, Dastan wondered if his intuition was correct that it had been on Tamina's orders that Asoka had started the fight. He had thought she felt the connection between them, but ever mindful of her scheming, Dastan knew she would not be above trying to win his trust and then kill him. He ate his food with caution, glad that his father had ordered his own taste testers to check every dish in the meal. He would not put it past Tamina to poison every single member of the Persian army if she thought her dagger was in danger.

Dastan tried to remember everything he had told her from the moment he had returned the dagger to her. What precisely had given him away? Had it been his sudden change of mind? The simple act of giving the dagger? His cryptic words and double meanings . . . Or had it been everything taken together? Dastan mentally kicked himself for not being more discrete. He could now admit to himself that he had always wanted her to know, and he simply hadn't known how to convey the full tale to a woman who as of yet cared nothing for him and might laugh in his face or dismiss it as nonsense. But his hints and hopes had been irrevocably foolish. Now that Tamina thought her secrets were in danger and knew her attempt on his life had failed, she would go to the temple in the Hindu Kush. He doubted she would allow Dastan to prevent her, for she had no reason to trust him, not even if he confessed the whole story. His only option was to convince her he knew nothing about it. But how could he do it?

In his mind he tried out several plans, discarding each as foolish or impossible. He would leave in the morning, and there simply wasn't enough time. If he could make her love him, would she think twice? How could he make Tamina love him in one night when before it had taken him months?

"My sons look dour tonight," said Sharaman, who was sitting on Garsiv's other side. (Tus was at Sharaman's right.) The king was smiling, and Dastan supposed that Tus had somehow kept the details of the duel from their father. Otherwise, he would certainly have been outraged by Princess Tamina's insulting forgiveness of his youngest son's attacker.

"I think of the enemies I must face," said Garsiv, alluding to Kosh. Yet he looked up and stared squarely at Asoka.

"I would look happier if my brother did," said Dastan. "There's no one to talk to over here."

At this, Tamina stood from her couch and clapped her hands three times. From behind her appeared a long line of musicians with their sitars and flutes. Behind them came forward a bevy of exotic and scantily clad women. "The princes require entertainment," she said. "Alas, my modesty prevents me from joining you. The women and I shall retire." And she drew her long white veil about her face, covering her eyes, and left.

"My kind of woman," said Sharaman, teasing his son.

Dastan watched her go, admiring her lithe and graceful form until it had disappeared around the door. He supposed it was the last time he would see her until the year was out, for even if she came to bid farewell in the morning, she would surely be veiled. Unless, that is, he broke into her chambers. It was a gamble. She might cast him out, curse him, scream for her guards. Worst of all, she might take his presumption to heart and hold it against him. But he had to see her. He had to know if she had guessed his secret. He had to kiss her one last time. But oh, the risk . . . !

Many hours later when the festivities had risen to a racous binge, Dastan excused himself and returned still unresolved to his bedroom. Looking out upon the balcony, separated from the main room by only a thin tapestry, Dastan observed the crescent moon was high in the night sky and the bright stars that had come out in tribute. He thought of his chambers back in Nasaf where his pet hunting dogs awaited him and his bows and arrows and javelins hung from the high walls. Once his life had been carefree, and he had looked out of his balcony at home upon these same stars and thought only of how in the morning he would take his best horse and go out to the wilderness to find good sport. Now he had fallen in love, and his mind was wracked with doubt and fear. _Beautiful, defiant, infuriating Tamina_ . . . what excuse could he conjure for visiting her?

It was then that his manservant appeared through the servant's passage that was hidden behind a thick tapestry hanging from the ceiling. He had a little tray of mint tea in his hands, but uncharacteristically it jiggled and he spilled a few drops as he emerged from behind the thick cloth. Dastan could not remember him doing that in all his days. Servants in the royal household prided themselves on perfection and invisibility. Looking at the marble floor from whence the man had emerged, Dastan spied the culprit behind his servant's tripping. It was a piece of thin, white cloth. Judging from its sheen, he guess it was silk.

"What's that?"

"Begging your pardon, Your Highness," he said, coming forward and setting the tea upon the large round table. He went back and picked it up.

"Give it to me," said Dastan, holding his hand out. And when the servant placed it in his hand, Dastan saw it was a torn piece of fabric, white with a richly embroidered trim.

"It must have been one of the maids, Your Highness," the servant said. "It was caught in the door."

"This is too rich for a maid's hem," said Dastan, rubbing his finger over the tight crimson thread that adorned the edge of the silk. The pattern reminded him of a lotus plant he had seen once in Egypt. He held the cloth up to his nose, checking for any lingering trace of her perfume. "Does that passage lead to the women's quarters?"

"Yes, Your Highness. I believe there is a connecting passage."

"By the gods, that woman is impossible," Dastan murmured under his breath. When he realized his servant had not understood, he spoke more clearly. "Call out the servants. Ask them to check my sheets for evidence of poison. Check my rooms for a sign of a trap. And find someone without scruples who can show me the way to the zenana."


	7. The Prince and the Princess

A/N: I think I need to watch the movie again. I hope I have time before it's out of theaters. My memory of it is fading rather quickly. Plus, now that the new Harry Potter trailer has been released, my attention has already started to waver back to that fandom. Right now I'm thinking of a post-Deathly Hallows fic. Hmmm . . .

Also, I think this may be the last chapter. I meant it to be longer, but for some reason I just accidentally hit upon a good ending. Well, no. Now that I think of it, I introduced some other elements that haven't been addressed yet.

* * *

Chapter 7: The Prince and the Princess

By Jen

Dastan was wrong.

Tamina had not ordered Asoka to attack him (not explicitly at any rate), nor had she entered his quarters to poison him (or entered them at all). On the contrary, she could not help liking him and was angry with herself for such weakness, wondering if the connection she felt with him was genuine or merely a figment of her imagination because she only wanted an excuse to live. She had a feeling that Prince Dastan was trustworthy, but it was only a feeling. Her mother had always warned her that women ought to think with their minds and not their hearts. _"A queen must forget her heart,"_ she had said_. "If you can do that, you may become more powerful than any king."_

Yes, Dastan was handsome. Yes, he seemed kind. But was he not Persian? He could not haven taken her holy city by force without incurring the wrath of his father's allies. Perhaps the princes had only engineered their apology in order to force her into a marriage that would hand Alamut over to the Persian Empire without the stigma borne by forcible conquest. Was it possible that Prince Dastan had not accused Asoka of attempting to murder him because he had not wanted to break such a fruitful alliance? And his mysterious looks that seemed infused with meaning an emotion . . . were they pretense as well? Prince Dastan certainly had a way with women. It was possible he was seducing her.

Having long retired from the banquet, Tamina sat amongst her handmaidens, listening absently to their chatter as she stared out the wide window at the night sky and the moonlight gleaming from the turrets of her city. Only a few hours before she had watched Dastan brawling in the square, and had tried to feel disgust for such barbarism. Yet she felt none. Instead she had been impressed. He handled a sword well, with confidence and grace. He held his temper in check as he fought, and in the end he had been honorable towards his enemy. It was Asoka's actions that angered her. But later when she had attempted to chastise him, he had brought up a conversation they had had years before, when she and he were still acolytes. Even then she had been a princess, however. And today Asoka had reminded her of an order she had given long ago:

"_If ever I should think of marrying, you must kill that man."_

A foolish order, one brought on by her foolish girlhood admiration for her handsome kinsman. It had faded quickly, coming and going like most childhood fancies. The girl who had whispered that command into Asoka's eager ear had been an ignorant 15-years-old. What had she known then about the hope that sprang in her breast when she pictured golden, glorious life unfolding before her with a husband she loved, children, prosperity, and peace? It had been thus for the women of her mother's line for centuries. Without fail they had all led blissful lives in Alamut. At last Tamina understood the cruel joke her gods had played upon mankind. For to save the world forever from all its vices and frailties, all she need do was sacrifice herself and return to the sand from whence she came. In doing so, she would surrender a sure chance at joy, wealth, and a long life lived in honor. Yet what was that to a truly selfless woman? It meant her fellow man was saved forever. So simple . . . yet in two hundred years no priestess had ever forsaken her own happiness and Alamut's glories to consign herself to dust and ash for the sake of a world that did not merit such a bitter gift.

Since her mother had first told the story, Tamina had planned to be different. She had not spent her childhood dreaming of the one man who would come and offer her a life of roses without thorns, but had sworn that, were the dagger ever compromised, she would go straightaway to the temple and replace it in the rock. And yes, she _had_ ordered Asoka to carry out that order in the event that she ever forgot that vow.

Yet he had tried, and Dastan had beaten him. And she was glad.

Tamina had departed from the banquet, but had retired to a room beside the hall and spied on him through a hidden grate. He had not leered at the dancers' exposed flesh as his brothers had, nor had he blushed red and turned away. He had seemed to enjoy himself, but in moderation. Nor had he imbibed too much wine or stuffed himself with meat. He had joked with his men and his brothers, and his smile had revealed perfect, beautiful white teeth and his blue eyes sparkled. Yes, she liked him.

"My lady, you seem far away," said Rima, who sat among the young handmaidens, adorning their feet as she had decorated Tamina's the night before.

"I think of my future lord and husband," said Tamina. She stood and walked toward the wide window that led to the balcony from whence a gentle breeze entered and stirring the curtain that separated the outside from the inside. She was turning red, growing flustered. "I cannot deny that I think him very handsome."

Rima smiled wisely, but a two of the other girls began to giggle.

"It is no laughing matter," said Tamina, who disliked their levity after she had revealed so deep a secret.

"Oh, we dare not laugh at you, for he is handsome, mistress," said Farah. "And you should see his sword!"

"Polished and well-kept," snickered Adiva.

"Well-used," added Farah.

Tamina did not miss the strange double entendre, but was aware that she was uncharacteristically in the dark. She observed Rima's silent plea for Farah to keep silent. Remembering what Rima had said yesterday about the servant's passage, it occurred to her what had happened.

"Farah, did you sneak into Prince Dastan's room tonight?"

But Farah did not have a chance to answer, for before she did, Tamina was aware of a massive shape and a moving body. A great, strong arm had seized her round the middle, and she felt a blade pressed to her throat.

"How does it feel to be taken by surprise, Princess?"

She recognized his voice. Confusion was her first emotion. Then cold anger. "Prince Dastan, what are you doing? How _dare_ you come here? You have invaded the sanctity of this house, and you risk dishonor to me and yourself."

He released her, pushing her a few feet away. He sheathed the knife he had held. And he was smiling at her. "A knife to your throat, and still all you think about is duty."

"Is this some kind of joke?" she insisted.

"You tell me," he said. "First you order your henchman to assassinate me. Next you invade my bedchamber. I'm leaving in the morning, so I haven't got time to investigate. I'm here to ask you directly. Why?"

"That was Farah in your bedchamber," snapped Tamina, instinctively. Behind her Farah gasped in mortification. "She was hoping to admire your . . . weaponry."

"And the assassin?" asked Dastan, with a smirk.

"Premeditated murder requires real hatred. I think you overestimate how strongly I feel about you, Prince Dastan."

He laughed at her. Tamina felt the sand beneath her feet begin to ebb away. He hadn't been hurt at all by her statement.

"Did you or didn't you order Asoka to kill me?"

"Did you or didn't you tell your brother it was just a friendly match?"

"You're quick enough to deny that you came to my room."

"Get out," she commanded him. "Or I'll call the guards."

"I want to tell you a story first," he said, advancing towards her. Tamina backed away, but she couldn't look away from his eyes. They were searching hers, and he was coming closer all the time, until he closed out the world and there was only him. She was terrified, yet fascinated. Caught within his trap, she felt her body grow hot and her heart beat faster. She knew her handmaids were still in the room. It was shameful to behave this way in front of them. Her eyes darted to Rima, but she only saw the traitorous older woman had gathered up the other handmaidens and was sweeping them out the door.

"How did you get in here?" Tamina asked. "I'll have the entrance boarded up."

"The servant's passage, of course," he said, ignoring her last comment. Dastan had come quite close, and she was up against the wall with no way to escape. He put his arm up, leaning against the wall and trapping her at the same time. His clothes and skin smelled of herbs and oil. She almost ached where his body was close to hers, and she grew dizzy at the thought of how easily he might claim her. His lips hovered just an inch from hers. "Let me tell you the story about a Princess who swore to the gods she would never marry. And a Prince who attended her prayers diligently, day in and day out until he had won her heart."

"Let me go," she protested. But Tamina could not summon the requisite strength into her voice to make herself believable. Something undeniable was between her and this stranger, and she could not fight it. She pressed her hands against his chest, trying to push him away, but it was a mistake. She could not move them at all except to pull him closer.

"The Princess was afraid to break her vow. She ordered her brother to kill the Prince."

At this, Dastan pressed his soft lips gently against her ear. Tamina felt his breath and trembled.

"Yes?" she whispered.

"But the Prince fought him off and sent him back to his sister, who was ashamed. She did not know what to do, and so she climbed to the highest tower in her palace and leapt off."

Tamina shuddered. "Then she kept her promise. An honorable choice."

"No," said Dastan. "As she began to fall, she realized what a mistake she had made. She saw in an instant that the vow meant nothing, and that life meant everything."

"How tragic," said Tamina, who was amazed to see how far Dastan had read into her thoughts.

"There's a happy ending. The Prince was waiting for her on the ramparts, and he caught her."

Tamina shook her head. Tears escaped at last from her glistening eyes. She nearly threw her arms about his neck and kissed him. But he did not lean in again. Dastan did not touch her. Instead, he released her. Slowly, but surely he moved away. How could he leave her in such a state?

"I have broken your custom and come to the zenana and spoken with you unaccompanied. I won't tread upon your modesty and honor any longer, princess."

"Dastan . . . how much do you know about the Dagger of Time?"

He turned back, his mouth opened as if to speak. Then he closed it. For a while he seemed to ponder what to say, and in that moment Tamina realized he knew everything, for if he hadn't known he would have seemed confused by her question. But this racing silence meant he was thinking of a diplomatic reply.

At last he smiled at her. "That old dagger I returned to you?" he asked with a laugh. "Frankly, it's a bit too blunt to do anything useful."

Tamina considered his answer for a moment. She realized it was the best one he could have given her.

"Yes," she said. "I suppose it doesn't do anything useful at all."

"I'll see you in a year's time?" he asked. His eyes were hungry, desperate, hopeful.

Tamina met his beseeching gaze.

"Yes Dastan. In a year's time."


	8. Reversal

A/N: I had to think up a new direction for the plot because I accidentally resolved most of it in the last chapter. This should eventually tie together all the plot elements and lengthen the fic a great deal.

* * *

Chapter 8: Reversal

By Jen

**_Three months later . . ._**

Dastan had always been most at home in the wrestling ring, and what was battle but one, chaotic, loud wrestling match? Bodies pressed up against one another, armor clanking, fists pummeling. There was no room for technique and finesse in the thick of the fight, where endurance, brute strength and luck alone prevailed.

The dust swirled into clouds that choked him. The torturous sun blinded him. His knuckles were bloodied, his muscles ached. He bled from four different wounds, and the world around him was growing dark, closing in on him as if death were drawing the curtains. And he was amazed at the peacefulness of it all. Everyone seemed to move more slowly than usual, as if they had all the time in the world, and he alone understood how near they all were to the end.

Beneath him, his legs buckled. They had failed. As he lay down, without strength to fight any longer, Dastan reflected upon how colossally they had failed. Kosh's men had taken the oasis, as Tus had expected. But they had not forseen his great armies sweeping like a hook through the barren desert to surprise them. Kosh's men arrived at their rear bedraggled, starved, dying of thirst, but in such great numbers that it was like a swarm of locusts come to strip an already dying crop.

Persia's armies were overrun. Kosh had flanked them, and Garsiv's cavalry was enveloped. Their archers were decimated. The infantry (what remained of it) was surrounded, and for all Dastan knew he was the last of Sharaman's sons. He had last seen Garsiv being pulled from his horse too far away for Dastan to reach him in time. Tus, he presumed had either retreated or fallen into enemy hands. Somehow, he knew this was not how his future was supposed to be, but how else could it have happened?

All Dastan wanted now was to lie down and sleep. Somewhere in the background he could hear voices screaming his name. Could it have been Bis? But he no longer cared if it was or it wasn't, for Bis did not belong to the approaching silence.

As he closed his eyes, for what he thought would be the last time, he felt great, strong arms surrounding him. He felt himself being hoisted up, but perhaps that was only death coming to carry him home. His last thought as he lost consciousness was of Tamina, and how he wished now that he had kissed her before he left.

_Too late. Not enough time. Never enough time._

* * *

News of the defeat came to Alamut before it reached Nasaf. And the last of the Persian contingent came to the gates not as conquerors but as beggars pleading for sanctuary. They entered within with timid faces blacked by dust and blood and shame. Alone among the proud princes who had ridden forth from the city's gates was Tus, who had been so badly wounded that it was probably that he too might die. And when the Persians came into the Princess's throne room, it was a lowly servant garbed in the black of mourning, who came forth and set Prince Dastan's sword before Tamina's feet.

"He died well, my lady. In battle, as befits a true warrior," he said. And as Tamina looked on him, she seemed to recognize him as Bis, Dastan's friend.

She couched upon the dais, shrouded in white and gold. Her eyes were lined with kohl and dark ash, and she appeared to everyone in the throne room like a frozen statue upon a pedestal. Yet inside she was flesh and blood, and her heart was beating faster as she considered the servant's words. They held no meaning for her at first, but seemed as empty as the cold air that blew in the lonely night. Only when he set the sword within her hands, and she felt its weight, saw the ugly notches that marred the blade, and the fraying strips of cloth that Dastan had wound about the hilt . . . only then did she understand what his servant was saying.

It meant there was to be no marriage. The handsome prince whom she had almost learned to love was never to return. She had not known him long enough to truly mourn him, and yet Tamina understood perfectly that her life and her future had grown inescapably darker. His death had cut her youth in twain. The twisting pain in her heart and head confirmed what she had known since his departure: that if she could choose between life with Dastan and life without him, she would pick Dastan . . . Dastan . . . _Dastan._

"How?" she managed. She thought of his young body, lifeless now and rotting in the desert sun, and his great soul lost forever. It did not seem fair to her.

"Kosh overran our armies," he explained, with tears streaming from his eyes. "Dastan fought them off, but he was in the thick of the fight. He suffered many wounds. I was with him at the last."

Tamina nodded. "And Kosh?"

"He marches on Alamut."

Her lips fell open, and she stared down at Bis as she struggled to process this information. It was worse than the news of Dastan's death, for Alamut's walls were unrepaired. Its armies were few. The Persians were routed, and reinforcements from Nasaf could not arrive before Kosh. Her conquerors would storm the city, pillaging and raping, and she had no doubt of what might happen to her and her temples.

There was but one course of action, but it was forbidden to her. She could not even think it, and perhaps never would have if the idea of its possibility had not already been planted in her mind. If Dastan had done it before, as she was certain that he had . . . did she have the strength to resist?


End file.
